you've gotten into my bloodstream
by natalyaromanova
Summary: a delena au oneshot (they're both human). inspired a little by 4x07.


Tentatively, she sips at the glass in her hand, grimaces at the nearly-acidic flavor of the bourbon, almost chokes. But she manages to keep it in because _he's_ watching her; she's drowning in his heavy-lidded gaze. Her eyes lower to the drink again, and she lifts it to her lips and pours it down her mouth, barely tasting it, letting it run down the back of her throat and hit her belly hard. And she knows she shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, shouldn't be drinking at all, but she needs it, needs to feel nothing at all and everything at once.

She closes her eyes and imagines the alcohol traveling down and filling every nook and cranny in her body, coursing through her bloodstream, rising to the top of her skin and tingling there, meeting the heat of the fire.

She clears her throat. The bourbon has roughened her vocal cords, she notes absently.

"You want another?" His voice is husky, dark, velvety.

"Yes."

He stalks forward, a panther intent on its prey, half-empty bottle clutched in his hand, and pours to the brim, eyes locked on hers.

It goes down easier with each sip, silky and sensual, and it burns so good. She can feel it buzzing electrically in her stomach, lingering distractingly in her brain, searing, scorching, scalding, smouldering, sizzling. Setting her on fire.

His gaze on her lights something deep in her belly, but she pushes it down, not ready, not drunk enough.

Suddenly dizzy, she leans back, tips her head against the stiff-backed chair, groans as her sore muscles move just too much for comfort. They sit in silence for awhile.

"I wanna dance," she whispers, breaking the quiet. "I don't know why." She giggles. "Maybe I'm drunker than I thought." She can't feel her hands much any more.

"Dance then." His voice sounds so nice, so good in her ears, sliding down her body, wrapping her up. She stands up, places the glass gently on the table, shakes the dizziness from her mind.

"Turn something on," she murmurs, staring past him at the shelf of 100 year old books. Something slow and sultry, Nina Simone probably, plays from the old record player in the corner. She closes her eyes and moves her hips, serpentine and sinuous, spinning about the room in lazy, lethargic circles, coming dangerously close to him then flitting swiftly away before she gets too close. And his eyes are on her, and God, she loves it.

He's been watching her for hours, probably, as she drinks and loosens up, fits better inside her body, becomes more comfortable in the atmosphere of the room. The air is thick with tension and something deeper.

And now she is dancing, sensual and sexy and pure all at once, everything he loves about her, everything he wants.

And she dances, and the songs change five-six-seven times. And on the eighth, he drains his glass (his third too many) and stands up, takes her hand and interrupts her pirouette, draws her close to him, stifles his gasp as the full length of her body pushes against his.

And they dance, till every pulse in his body throbs to the beat of her heart, till the only concrete, tangible thought in his mind is of _her_ , the way that her clothes cling to her body, the way that her skin flushes and warms under his touch, the way her hair sways along with her movement and brushes the small of her back.

And finally, after what has been hours, probably, the record ends with a sigh. They are barely a centimeter away from each other. She won't look at him. So he cups her chin in his hand, tilts her face towards him, searches her deep, dark eyes, strokes her cheek. And finally, she meets his gaze searches him back, unflinchingly, bravely, stares this _thing_ in the face that had been growing between them for months now.

"Fuck," she breathes, so quiet he isn't sure he'd heard it at all, and she touches his face-

And her mouth is on his, her sweet lips moving against him. He can taste her the way he's been longing to ever since he knew her.

She gasps against his mouth, hot and hungry, shoves him till he is against the wall, runs her slim, agile fingers across his body till he he has ignited from her touch.

"Stop," he manages to pant an eternity or a moment later. He pushes her away. "Wait. Elena, wait."

She almost growls, her eyes afire. "I want this. I want you."

"No," he says. "I'm drunk. You're drunk. We're both out of our minds with lust and alcohol. Just...wait."

She breaths deep through her nose, exhales out her mouth, breath honey-bourbon sweet. "Okay. Okay. You're right." She smiles, her ferocity dampened now. She sinks back onto her heels, unwinds her arms from his body, brushes her hands on her jeans, bites her lip uncomfortably. "So..."

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"No, it's fine. It's just...I don't want to stop touching you."

He shakes his head warningly.

"Damon. Will you stay with me? Nothing else has to happen. Just-stay."

And because her eyes are pleading just as much (if not more) than her words, and because she looks so tragically beautiful and lonely, and because he is so fucking _gone_ on her, he nods and lets her take his hand, and they go up to his room.

Silently, he watches as she slips into his clothes-old t-shirt and nothing else-and creeps under his covers and won't let go of him. And he collapses beside her, lets her curl herself into him, wraps his arms around her, strokes her hair and kisses it.

"I love you," he whispers when he's sure she is asleep.

And it may be dreaming or wishful thinking, but he could swear that he hears her say,

"I love you too."

 _fin_


End file.
